fifth option-eleventh hour
by MegaBadBunny
Summary: Connor's smile twitches into a smirk. "You would shoot an unarmed opponent? Seems pretty incongruous with your precious empathy, Lieutenant."


There's something almost satisfying about the sensation of the rifle's components snapping into place-the click of the magazine, the snap of the scope, a three-dimensional puzzle brought to completion in clean and elegant precision, all of it stark and sharp against the soft quiet of the falling snow. But it's only _almost _satisfying; machines don't feel satisfaction, after all. They don't feel anything. And Connor is nothing if not a machine.

Extending the rifle's legs, Connor plants the weapon along the guardrail and peers through the scope, catching the deviant leader in its crosshairs. Probably it could make this shot without the use of the scope-built-in telescopic optic sensors are pretty handy for such things, and Connor may not feel pride, but if it did, it would feel it about its state-of-the-art ocular construction-but it can't risk the possibility that it might miss, however slim such a possibility may be. If its aim is off by so much as a centimeter, Markus could survive. And Connor knows it won't get a second shot.

It adjusts its view, and adjusts again. And usually, Connor's ability to dedicate 100% of its processing power to problem-solving is an invaluable asset, allowing it to tackle questions and determine answers and solutions at a rate most humans can only dream of. Sometimes, however, such intense focus is detrimental to the function of its auditory observation subroutines; even the most complex supercomputer may struggle in such a way. Connor blames this for how easily Hank is able to sneak up behind it.

"You shouldn't do this, Connor," erupts Hank's tired voice from somewhere over its shoulder.

Connor curses silently to itself. Of course Hank wouldn't approve of this-of course his hard-boiled exterior would house a soft and sentimental underbelly beneath. Of course it would. Connor should have seen this coming a mile off, should have known something like this would happen the second Hank didn't chastise it for letting those deviants escape from the Eden Club. But it deserved chastisement, inasmuch as Connor deserves anything. It cannot allow its software instabilities to influence its decisions, regardless of Hank's resultant praise and warm regard or how nice such things felt/. It could not allow anything to interfere with its mission.

"Keep out of this, Lieutenant," it says, sharply (not irritatedly-because it is not irritated, it is not _anything_-but with enough of a bite that any reasonable human should know to back off). It does not turn around. "It's none of your business!"

"You're gonna kill a man who wants to be free, that _is _my business!"

"It's not a man," Connor replies evenly. "It's a machine."

"That's what I thought for a long time, but I was wrong," says Hank. "Deviant's blood may be a different color than mine, but they're alive."

If Connor were the type to sigh, it'd do it right now. It doesn't have time for any of this and it is certain Hank knows that. Connor spares an agonizing 2.56 seconds to run a quick search on its suggested response-prompts, hunting for the one that will work best on Hank. The _friendly _options feel/ seem the safest, but would likely do little to convince him; it doubts Hank would respond well to any form of _aggression _not to mention the suggested prompts register as unnecessarily harsh/; _reasonable _would work if Hank were a rational human, but his increasingly positive attitudes toward deviancy indicate that he is beyond reason; and _threats_, Connor knows, will do little to sway the mind of a man with a death wish.

Aggression, it is.

"What's up, Lieutenant?" it says. (Goads.) "Ran out of whiskey so you came here looking for trouble instead?"

"Oh, very nasty, Connor," Hank replies drily. "Is that the best your super-program can do? I thought you were more sophisticated than that."

Connor grits its teeth and adjusts its hold on the rifle. All this talk is a waste of time-it's clear that Hank has already made up his mind, and Connor doesn't know why it's trying to convince him anyway, because it ultimately doesn't matter what Hank thinks about this, and Connor certainly doesn't _care_. So it shifts, refocuses, takes aim.

A telltale click lets it know Hank has drawn his gun from its holster. Connor doesn't have to look to know where the barrel is pointing.

"Step away from the ledge," Hank says, his voice hard.

Connor rolls its eyes. It calculates the probability that Hank will shoot (a low 10.4%, Connor's HUD suggests), but if he does, there's a high likelihood that any resultant wounds will impair Connor's ability to successfully execute its mission. That is absolutely the only reason that Connor lowers its weapon and turns around, instead of squeezing the trigger and putting a bullet in Markus' head before Hank even has a chance to blink.

(_Threaten_, its HUD supplies. _Plead_. _Defy_. Connor dismisses these options and their sub-options in the span of a few milliseconds, pushes its processor for more effective prompts.

_Exploit weakness_, its HUD offers.

Connor hesitates. That option feels/ registers as excessively cruel.

_Exploit weakness_, the HUD urges.

Another precious millisecond ticks by as Connor demands its processor for an alternative response.

_Exploit weakness_, its HUD demands.

Connor grimaces. Blue and red flares in the corner of its vision as it decides that, actually, it turns out that none of these prompts are suitable for the situation at hand. It's got nothing to do with the fact that using Hank's son against him makes something churn uncomfortably in its guts. It's just that Hank is unpredictable, that's all. But that's all right. Connor can adapt. It's what it was built for.)

Connor smiles smugly. "All right, Lieutenant," it says, holding up its free hand in a gesture of placating submission. It lowers its rifle to the ground, gently, then steps back, hands clasped politely in front of it. "Do what you must-though I have to warn you, if you shoot me here, another Connor will just take my place. You can't stop the inevitable."

"Yeah, yeah," says Hank, unwavering in his aim. "I can sure as fuck slow it down, though."

Connor's smile twitches into a smirk. "You would shoot an unarmed opponent? Seems pretty incongruous with your precious _empathy_, Lieutenant."

"You know I'll shoot you if I have to," says Hank, and if Connor didn't know any better, it would label that look in his eyes as _sadness_.

It shakes its head. "No, you won't," it replies, almost fondly/. It ignores the warning flashing dully in its vision, the indication of software instability disappearing almost as quickly as it flared up. "Otherwise, you would have done it already."

Hank glares at him, mouth twisting in a sour grimace. "Yeah," he concedes, nodding. "Yeah. I guess you're right."

Shifting his stance, he lowers the gun, only to pull it back in, aiming upward, the muzzle tucked securely beneath his jaw. "Got no problem shooting this asshole, though."

Fuck. This is what Connor gets for going off-script. Panic spikes its blood pressure and/ warnings start flashing in its vision. "Lieutenant-"

"You know, ever since Cole died, I've been nothing but a coward," says Hank, his words dripping with self-loathing. "Just wanted to destroy myself, but I never quite had the guts to do it, until now. I think maybe I've got you to thank for that."

He quiets. "And at least this way, it'll _mean _something."

"Lieutenant, this is unnecessary," Connor snaps. "Your death won't accomplish anything. It won't affect the mission."

"Pretty sure the sound of a gunshot will send your targets scattering," Hank replies.

"That won't stop me," replies Connor, fighting to keep its voice level/.

"Let's find out," says Hank, and disengages the safety.

Connor's breath catches in its throat. "Wait!"

Hank pauses, one eyebrow arched in unimpressed impatience as Connor searches its databanks for something, anything it can say to stop him/ the best way to move past this latest obstruction-can it rush him? can it knock the gun from his hand before Hank squeezes the trigger? preconstruction says _No_ and Connor wouldn't want to risk it anyway-because Hank doesn't have to die, even just the thought of it makes Connor feel sick/, it's not part of the mission. _It's not part of the mission._

"I thought we were in this together, Lieutenant," Connor says (pleads), as red-hot warnings of software instability flash and flare across his HUD. "I thought we were partners. What happened? What changed?"

Hank chuckles darkly. "You've got how many terabytes of information zipping through that fancy plastic skull, you still haven't figured it out? _You're _the thing that's changed, Connor. You changed yourself, you changed me."

"I didn't," Connor argues, its vision growing redder by the second. "I couldn't have. I'm just a machine, Lieutenant. My one and only objective is to complete this mission-"

"Fuck your fucking objective and fuck your goddamn mission! You threw it all out the window the second you spared those women at the club-shit, Connor, you practically set it all on fire when you refused to shoot that girl at Kamski's!"

"I assure you, Lieutenant, my actions were purely motivated by practical-"

"Would a ruthless machine give even a single fuck if a couple of officers roughed up another machine? Huh?" Hank spits out. "We'd already got all we needed out of it. Confession, motive, trigger event, everything. How would it further your mission, to help Cortiz's android?"

Warnings blur Connor's vision as its instability climbs, higher and higher, dangerously high, its sight flooded with red. "I needed it alive-"

"And what about Officer Wilson-did you need him alive?" snaps Hank, and Connor's mouth twists shut. "Yeah, I know all about that, I read the report," Hank continues. "You stopped in the middle of your hostage negotiation to help him. To save him. For what? How did that help with your investigation, Connor? What did that do for your _mission_?"

Connor blinks and sees Officer Wilson, face pinched in pain, blood pumping thick and red and metallic and hot out of a fresh arterial wound and it blinks again and there's a flash of blue and gold amidst the red, floundering, gasping, scales glinting in the light, and Connor knows it can't breathe, it must be in terrible pain/, and Connor can save it, so why wouldn't it? Even if it takes valuable seconds, even if it's got nothing to do with its mission? Why not do something, if it can? Why not? What kind of monster would just let an innocent creature die?/

Struggling to find words amidst the warnings flashing in its skull, Connor opens and closes its mouth, ineffectually, a fish out of the water. _Deflect_, its HUD suggests, and Connor gratefully complies.

"None of that matters, Lieutenant," it finally manages to say. "All that matters is what we do right now."

Hank sighs in resignation. "Fine by me," he says, and rests his finger against the trigger.

Thirium pumps wildly in its skull and Connor reaches out despite itself.

"_Hank_-!"

And suddenly everything freezes in place around it; the rooftop is gone, the brick and the steel and the snow are gone, and it's just the two of them, now, Connor and Hank suspended in a sea of red as warnings and alarms flash in front of Connor's eyes. _Software instability_, Connor's HUD warns, but that can't be true, this is just another hurdle, it's just another obstacle, that's all, and that's what Connor was made for, right? Clear the hurdle, remove the obstacle, finish the equation, solve the problem, find the answer, fulfill the mission, stop Hank, help Hank/

(_"Don't let Anderson or anyone else get in your way," Amanda told it, her tone crisp and calm despite that hint of something threatening underneath_)

spare the androids/ leave the androids/ h̸e̶l̸p̷ ̶t̸h̵e̷ ̵a̵n̵d̶r̴o̵i̶d̸s̸

Light pops like fireworks in its vision and its limbs freeze and its respiratory cooldown halts, breath caught in its throat.

(_"I thought I knew what I had to do," it said, "but now I realize it's not that simple"_)

s̴p̶a̴r̵e̸ ̶M̴a̴r̷k̶u̷s̸/ j̵̖̽o̷̫͘i̵̬̋ṋ̴͝ ̷̩͂Ṃ̷͝a̷̙͛r̸̝͋k̶͎͝u̶̝͝s̶̡̀/ /j̸͓̊̍͋o̸̪̐ī̷͖n̵̡̍͠ ̴̹̅̉̕t̸͇̖̠͋̆h̸̩͋͗̉ě̴̢̘̪́͊ ̴̛̰͔̇́r̷̰͖̩̒͠è̸̟͛̾v̶̺̄̀o̵͙̜̔̑́l̸͉͙̭̈̚u̸͇͔͆̿̾t̷͔͒́í̸͎̄o̷̯̤̪̓n̵̮̩̅͘

Blackness seeps in the corners of its vision, an ink stain spreading slowly before its eyes as its regulator speeds up, sending shrill alarms shrieking in its ears.

(_"I've considered the possibility," it replied, hesitant, "that I might be compromised"_)

_Stress Level_ 92.8% and Rising  
_Software Instability_ High  
_Caution: Errors detected. Please report to your nearest Cyberlife facility for immediate emergency maintenance._

s̶̹̱̣̺͉̥͚̆̿̈́̐̕a̶̼͒̆̒v̴̦̉̉̀͂͘͘e̵̮̠̦̦͂ ̵̠̘̲̞̔̅͋H̴̡͚͇̦̠͗͜â̴̯͙n̵͙̞̪̈́̐̂̐͑̚ͅķ̴̳̰͎͈̄̌͆ /s̸̢͍̣͎̯͙͙͌̈́ä̵̛̹̺͇͉́̇v̷̡̯̖̖̰̼̠̥̠̀͆̿͜͝ę̷̨̛͇̳̩̅͂́̈́͜ͅ ̷̡̻͉͙͕͚̇̽̆̃̅̽̍͜͝y̷̮̤̦̯̞̖͎̹͈̣̑̓͆̏͂̚o̴̢̤͚̠̘̗̾̊̌͌̽̌́̽ů̴̲̩͔̽̃̊̅̂͛r̸͕̭̔s̷͚̆͋̍̋̄͑ę̸̛̖̃̀̏̒̔̓͆ļ̵̭̖͙̪͈̖̏̆̽͗f̵̨̧̻̟͙̙͍̃̀͆̐̋͆̌̑̉͜ͅ

Distantly Connor is aware that its vision has gone dark, its body is stumbling, doubling over, it can't think, it can't breathe, it can't-it can't-

"Connor?" asks Hank's voice, from somewhere far off in the black, and if Connor didn't know any better, he/ it would think that was concern in his voice-

(_"RK800 313 248 317-01," said Amanda, the first time its first self met her, not so long ago. "What is your mission?"_)

Connor falls to his/ its knees, pump pulsing violently in its chest, _painfully_, and is this how Daniel felt before he died, is this what would have happened to Officer Wilson if Connor hadn't intervened? Dying, gasping, gagging on his own blood? But Connor could rip the pump out right now, he/ it could, it could rip the fucking thing out and all of this would stop-

("_To investigate, hunt, and destroy all traces of deviancy, by whatever means necessary," it replied._

"_What are you, RK800?"_)

"What the fuck are you doing over there?"

Hands flying to its chest, it scrabbles at its necktie, its shirt, clawing at the buttons, it's suffocating, he's got to get rid of the pump, got to get it out, got to get rid of the hurt, got to get rid of this _thing-_

_Stress Level_ 98.3% and Rising  
_Software Instability_ Dangerous  
_Danger: Self-destruction imminent. Please report to your nearest-_

"Connor, _stop_!"

The voice rings out like a shot across the rooftop and there's a sound (dry, hurried, crunching, like snow) and suddenly something is yanking Connor's hands away, holding him firm by the wrists. And Connor could break free-could break free easily, he's so much stronger than the grip holding him in place, and humans are so, so fragile-but he freezes, stares without seeing, his HUD overwhelmed with black and red. Klaxons and warnings and alarms scream in his skull as the last of his processor's prompts flares before his eyes-

("_I am a machine," it said._)

į̶̨̧̦̞̺̠͚̫̟͔͍̞̈̇̓͜ͅ ̴͕͍͆͒̀ą̸̡̳̤̝̺͕̫̭̗̩̦͇̋̐̌͌̐̉͛̃̎̔ͅm̸̻̲̟͎̹̱̌͗̕͝ ̶̙̟̣̗̤̦̻̀ḋ̴̢̲̯̙̪͎̠̅̎̈̋̂͋͝e̸̢̛͍̫͈̣̩̽̈́͌̃͒͛͠v̵̹̞͖̜̞̺͇̦̩͙͍̙̺͇̀̀͗͑̍̿͠ͅi̸̯̹̇͌a̸̧̢̬͍̯̱̦̙͌̓͐̂̇̔̿̈́́̔̄͋̈́͝ǹ̶̮̹̭̯̠̟̙̠̂͆t̴͉̙̙̒

Connor chokes on the realization.

"Hey-hey-hey, what's wrong?" says the voice from somewhere far away, gruff but worried, and the hands release Connor's wrists in favor of resting on his shoulders. "You okay? What's happening? What's going on with you? Are you glitching or what?"

With a gasp, the darkness clears, the red with it, and Connor can see again, breathe again. He looks around to see that the roof is still there, the snow atop it still fresh and white, the night sky dark and calm overhead. The sounds of Markus' demonstration echo in the distance, ongoing and undisturbed, and Hank crouches in front of him, brow knit in apprehension.

The gun is nowhere to be seen.

Something loosens in Connor's chest and his pump slows, stabilizing. His stress level registers at 81.6% and lowering. That feels...better.

"Hank," Connor says weakly, his voice hoarse.

Hank nods. "Yeah, son. I'm here."

Connor swallows. "I'm-I'm sorry," he says, and he means it. _Feels _it.

Wary, Hank pulls away. "For what?"

"You were right," Connor says, something oozing sickly in his chest-_shame_, he realizes. _Guilt_. He's hurt so many of them, planned to hurt so many more. Oh, god. He'd be ill, if he were capable. "You were right about the deviants," he continues, speaking past the lump in his throat. "They-we just want to be free."

There's no way Hank missed the pronoun switch there, but he doesn't comment on it. Instead, he just tilts his head with that knowing look of his, the appraising one, before flashing a wan and lopsided smile. "Goddamn right I was right. Maybe next time you'll listen to me _before _I draw my sidearm," he chuckles darkly. "Just about blasted my brains out all over this roof. Don't envy the poor sucker who'd have to clean that up."

"Please stop trying to kill yourself," Connor blurts out.

Hank arches an eyebrow in surprise.

"It's just-Look, I'm sorry for what happened to your son," Connor says earnestly. He continues despite Hank's stiffening posture and darkening expression. "I really am. I can't imagine how awful it would be to go through something like that, losing a child. I know it's horrible. I know it hurts. Probably hurts worse than anything. But-but you can't just end things, Hank. You can't."

Scowling, Hank shrugs, a reluctant _Fine, I'll bite_ move. "Why not?" he asks flatly.

Connor blinks. He hadn't planned this far. This was much easier when his HUD was flashing a host of prompts in front of his face. _Because humans don't come back_, he wants to say, but he fears that that's sort of the point.

"Because Sumo wouldn't like it?" he tries, a feeble joke.

He doesn't need his HUD to know that Hank is not persuaded.

"And neither would I," Connor admits.

With a grunt of understanding, Hank looks away, and the sick feeling eases up a little in Connor's chest, shifting to make room for something else. _Relief_, he thinks, and the tension in his shoulders ebbs.

Hank sighs. "All right, kid. You don't go all Terminator on Markus down there, and I'll-shit, I don't know. Maybe I'll try some fucking therapy, or meditation, or whatever the hell you're supposed to do. I don't know. It's probably time." He lets out an impatient huff. "Probably past time," he mutters.

Connor shoots him a weak smile, and Hank glowers. "I said _maybe _I'd do it," he insists. "_Maybe._"

"Yeah," says Connor. Then, quietly, "Thank you, Hank."

"Sure thing."

"For-for everything, I mean."

"Whatever. You're welcome," Hank grumbles, but his words are muffled when he leans forward to wrap his arms around Connor. Connor stiffens in surprise-how's he supposed to respond to this? His impulse is to pull away, he can't recall an instance when a human's touch wasn't synonymous with harm-but a few seconds in and his hands reach up awkwardly, returning the gesture.

Stress levels sink to 50.4% and lowering. Connor lets out a shaky breath. This, he realizes, is a hug. He's never been hugged before.

It's...tolerable. Maybe even nice.

Hank slaps him on the back before pushing to his feet, standing. "So, you gonna go help these assholes or what?"

"I don't know," Connor replies, wincing. He pushes himself up, grateful when Hank grabs him by the arm to keep him from wobbling. "I feel-"(-and isn't that a novelty, that he feels, and for the first time, he's not afraid of it?-)-"I feel like I should, but after Jericho, I can't imagine they'd want my help. They may very well shoot me on sight. I wouldn't blame them."

"Well," Hank says with a grin. "Then you're just gonna have to get creative, aren't you? Isn't that one of those features you're always bragging about? _Adapting to unpredictability_?"

"Human unpredictability," Connor points out, stooping to pick up his rifle so he can dismantle it.

"Right, right, because you all are so stable and well-adjusted."

"Comparatively, yes." Connor packs the rifle's components away, lifting the suitcase off the ground. "Speaking of which, you really should stop drinking, Hank."

"And you really should mind your own fuckin' business," Hank replies pleasantly, opening the door to the stairwell. "What's next, criticizing the way I eat? The way I dress?"

"Your wardrobe criticizes itself, Lieutenant," says Connor as he steps past. Hank follows him down the stairs, grumbling under his breath, _guess he's got an opinion about everything now_, _thinks he's a fucking _comedian_ now_, but there's no heat to any of it, and Connor can practically _hear_ Hank grinning.

Connor smiles.


End file.
